“What—what’s the matter?” she stammered.
There came a low moan from Lucile: “I’m so sick.”
“Seasick. Poor child,” said Florence.
“No—no, not that.” Lucile’s voice was faint. “It’s my head—it’s splitting. I can’t raise it. I—I’m afraid it’s going to be—be—bad.”
Florence leaped to the floor. Her feet splashed into a thin sheet of water which washed about on the carpet. The cold chill of it brought her to her senses. They were afloat.
Someone had cast them adrift. Was that someone on deck at this moment or had he merely cut the cable, removed the blocks and allowed the wind to do the rest? This must be determined at once.
Hastily dragging some rubbers on her benumbed feet, she splashed her way to the door. Having made sure that this was securely locked, she went to each window and porthole, fastening each as securely as possible. This done, she fought her way to Lucile’s berth and, steadying herself with one hand, placed the other on Lucile’s brow.
An exclamation escaped her lips. The forehead was burning hot. Lucile had a raging fever.
“If I had the coward who cut us loose,” she cried through clenched teeth, “I—I’d kill him!”